


Unclean, Make Me

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bloodplay, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Genderswap, Humor, Menstruation, Menstruation Kink, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was, John thought, perhaps the strangest conversation she had ever had. Who could have supposed that the most noteworthy thing about her, according to Sherlock Holmes, would be the fact that she menstruated?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unclean, Make Me

John tried for the first few months that she and Sherlock were living together to be discreet about her periods.

After all, Sherlock seemed to harbour odd ideas about gender (“For a woman who favours a masculine nickname,” he had said one evening, apropos of nothing, “your average daily attire is surprisingly feminine”), and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he were the sort of arsehole who thought women were incapacitated by menstruation and he tried to leave her out of cases as a result.

Sometime between finding the first set of thumbs in the fridge and being woken by Sherlock playing the violin at half four in the morning, however, John stopped giving a fuck what Sherlock thought.

So the first day of her next period, she was stretched out on the sofa with a heating pad and a package of Jaffa Cakes, watching Jeremy Kyle, when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom. When he caught sight of her, he paused, and John could practically see his running mental catalogue of observations adding up to a bright red sign above her head that screamed _MENSTRUAL_.

“Yes,” she said, “I am on my period. If you have a problem with that, you can bloody well fuck off.”

Although Sherlock’s expression didn’t change in the slightest, John got the feeling that she had shocked him.

“Ah,” he said after a brief silence. “Right.” He retrieved his coat and scarf, put them on, and left the flat without another word. The downstairs door slammed behind him.

Not five minutes later, the door slammed again, followed by the sound of someone bounding up the stairs. Sherlock burst back in, his hair distinctly windswept, and said, “So does that mean you _won’t_ come to a crime scene?”

John, despite herself, was intrigued. “What sort of crime scene?”

“Suspected kidnapping in Chelsea. Well, the Met suspects kidnapping. I suspect murder, but I’ll need to see the scene before I can be sure. So?”

John glanced down at herself: loose grey shorts, an oversized grey vest, no bra or socks. Her cramps were better, although not gone, and she shouldn’t need to change her tampon for at least a few more hours.

“Let me change first,” she said.

*

“You don’t like Jaffa Cakes,” said Sherlock, peering over John’s shoulder as she put away the shopping.

“No of course not. I only continue to buy them because our cupboards aren’t nearly full enough.” John slotted the new carton of Jaffa Cakes between a half-used box of pasta and one of Sherlock’s recent mould experiments (safely contained, for the moment at least, in an airtight box).

“You eat them during the first two days of your menstrual period but don’t give them a second glance otherwise.”

John turned with a sigh. Sherlock’s expression was pinched in confusion. He was probably trying to understand what to him must have seemed a curious pattern. John wondered if he had ever really encountered menstruation before, or if the whole concept existed in the same realm as sex and pop culture—something that other people concerned themselves with, something that he was far, far above.

“Well, some people have cravings at different points in their cycle,” John explained patiently. “The first few days of my period, I crave Jaffa Cakes.”

(John also craved sugary, carbonated beverages and slow, filthy sex, but she reckoned Sherlock didn’t need to know about all that.)

“Hm,” said Sherlock, giving her a long, even stare. Then he turned on his heels and returned to his bedroom, where he remained for the next several hours.

*

“It’s my understanding that most women prefer one type of feminine hygiene product over the others,” Sherlock said.

“Not the time or the place, Sherlock,” John told him firmly. She caught the cabbie’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and he turned hastily back to the road.

“But _you_ ,” Sherlock continued. “Tampons or sanitary towels, one brand or another—you don’t favour any of them.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John warned, and then realised what he had just said. “Hang on. How do you know what I do and don’t favour?”

“I went through your things. Obviously. Ah, right here will do, I think,” he called to the cabbie.

Sherlock practically sprang out of the cab as soon as it stopped, leaving John to pay the fare. As she rifled through her wallet, counting notes, the cabbie turned round.

“Be careful of that one, darling. My sister dated a bloke who went through her things. A right bastard, he was.”

“Oh, he is a bastard,” John agreed, handing over the money. “Almost as much of a bastard as someone who calls a complete stranger _darling_.”

She got out, slamming the cab door behind her, and hurried after Sherlock.

*

“What do menstrual cramps feel like?”

John glanced up from her computer. Sherlock was stretched out on his back on the sofa, seemingly in a deep perusal of the ceiling. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I’m not likely to ever experience them for myself, am I?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could manage something if you really wanted.”

Sherlock perked up. “Really?”

With a sigh, John closed her laptop and set it aside. She wasn’t really in the mood to update her blog, anyway.

“Cramps are hard to describe,” she admitted. “They’re different for everyone, but for _me_ …. The worst ones feel like bad stomach cramps—like you’ve eaten something off and you need to use the toilet _right now_. Kind of like that.”

“Hm,” said Sherlock. “Interesting.” And the thing was, he actually did look interested. In fact, he looked outright enthralled as he swung into a seated position and clasped his hands beneath his chin, considering her with his head cocked like a curious cat. “Which hurts worse, being shot or having bad menstrual cramps?”

This was, John thought, perhaps the strangest conversation she had ever had. Who could have supposed that the most noteworthy thing about her, according to Sherlock Holmes, would be the fact that she menstruated?

“Being shot,” she said. Then, because Sherlock was still staring at her as though he expected more, she decided she might as well finish the whole thought. “Although if I were on the first or second day of my period right now, I might think differently.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said again. He settled back against the sofa, raising his hands to his lips, and closed his eyes.

John wasn’t sure if it was his way of dismissing the topic or if he was pondering it more deeply, but he didn’t move again for hours.

*

“Can I have some?”

“If you want to make it yourself, then be my guest,” John said. She didn’t look up as she carried the used tea bag to the rubbish bin. Sherlock hadn’t responded to any of her texts all day, and now he was home, he expected her to have tea waiting for him? _Honestly_ , she thought with a scowl. “There’s still water enough in the kettle for another cup.”

The tea bag binned, she finally turned to Sherlock. He’d been to Boots, according to the plastic carrier bag he set on the table before he began to unravel his scarf and peel off his coat. Somehow, John couldn’t picture him in Boots—or any shop, really.

“Not _tea,_ ” Sherlock said peevishly. “Menstrual fluid.”

No, John thought, _this_ was the strangest conversation she had ever had. It had only just started, and she could already see that quite clearly.

“You want me,” she said slowly, “to give you some of my menstrual blood.”

“ _Yes_. Isn’t that what I just said?” Sherlock tossed his coat over the back of a chair and then, of all things, began to make himself a cup of tea like John had suggested. “You expect your period to begin any day now. Oh, please,” he scoffed when he caught sight of John’s expression, “it’s perfectly simple. I found the packaging for a pantyliner in the bin in the loo this morning—just the one—and we’ve been flatmates long enough I know what that means. Not to mention, I can smell it on you.”

“So not only do you go through my things,” John said, baffled and a bit horrified, “but you go through my rubbish as well. Wonderful, cheers for that. And I’m sorry, did you just say I smell?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I said _I_ can smell it on you. There’s a difference.”

While his tea steeped, Sherlock turned to John, wide-eyed like an eager puppy waiting for its owner’s permission. Her own tea, she recalled, was still sitting on the worktop, growing cold. The entire situation was painfully surreal.

“Remind me again why you want my menstrual blood?”

“To examine it. Obviously. And as a doctor, John, you of all people should know that it’s menstrual _fluid_ , not blood. Blood is only one component—”

“It comes out of my twat, Sherlock. I can call it whatever I want,” John snapped. “Why are you so interested in it?”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes as though the question were utterly ridiculous. “I’ve never seen it before. It’s something at least half the population has experienced, but I never have.”

_Yeah,_ John thought, _and everyone above the age of five knows the earth revolves around the sun, but you didn’t give a toss about that, did you?_ And yet at the same time, she understood it. People were simultaneously obsessed with and squeamish about the female reproductive system. She supposed that alone might have been enough to pique Sherlock’s interest.

Luckily for him, John wasn’t squeamish at all.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

Sherlock’s facial muscles didn’t so much as twitch, yet John sensed that he was immensely pleased. He reached for the plastic bag on the table and pulled out his purchase.

“A menstrual cup,” said John. “Really?”

Sherlock’s lips turned down. “What? It collects menstrual fluid. It’s ideal—”

“I know what it is, Sherlock. And why you bought it. I just….”

She just what? John didn’t know. She pictured Sherlock looking this sort of thing up on the internet, researching the options available, then standing in the intimate hygiene aisle of Boots comparing brands, sizes—and wasn’t _that_ a frightening thought?—and it was… an uncomfortable image. Not awkward or embarrassing, exactly, just… uncomfortable.

John shook the thought from her head. She had already donated toenails and strands of hair to Sherlock’s experiments—and who knows what she had unknowingly donated—so what was a little bodily fluid?

She accepted the menstrual cup from Sherlock’s hands, and this time he smiled brilliantly, the very picture of the proverbial cat with its canary.

“I have specimen containers,” he said.

“Just put one in the loo,” she told him. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

*

John had used a menstrual cup before, years ago at the recommendation of a friend. Not her sort of thing, really, although it was hard to pin down why exactly. She preferred the mess, she supposed.

Not that menstrual cups weren’t messy, because they were, but it was a different sort: contained, more easily hidden. And she found there was something sort of comforting about blood clots in her pubic hair and the red stains on her knickers when her pad slipped during the night.

So even though she didn’t use one any longer, John knew what she was doing when she opened and inserted the menstrual cup and then removed it several hours later. She dumped the contents into Sherlock’s specimen container, and then carried it to the sitting room, where Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa in a sulk of boredom, like a Victorian woman suffering a touch of the vapours.

When he saw what John was holding, however, he sprang to his feet and fairly launched himself at her so he could snatch the container from her hand.

“How many hours did you wear it?” he asked. He strode to the kitchen and held the container up to the light, peering into it with narrowed eyes.

John hadn’t a clue what he was expecting to see, and decided not to ask. “Around four hours.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock stared a few seconds more, then began to unscrew the lid. “And this is a normal amount of fluid for a four-hour period?”

“Er. Yeah.”

When the lid had been removed, Sherlock brought the container just beneath his nose, the top of it brushing his lip as he inhaled deeply enough that his shoulders rose. He closed his eyes, as though cataloguing the scent.

John hadn’t decided what to think about that when Sherlock lowered the container and dipped the tip of his index finger into the deep-red fluid inside. Just a dab against the surface, enough to gather a drop of it, which he brought to his mouth and licked off.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. She had, after all, on numerous occasions seen Sherlock do something similar at crime scenes; tasting was just another way of investigating, according to him.

And yet—that had been in her cunt. And Sherlock had just smelled it and tasted it without a second thought. John had had more than one ex who’d refused to touch her even through clothes when she was on her period, and Sherlock had just licked a bit of her menstrual blood from his finger and now stood with his eyes closed again, brow furrowed, considering the way she tasted, possibly even memorising it.

_Christ._ Desire bloomed in her gut; she felt the first tingle of it between her thighs. _Bugger_. This wasn’t what she needed right now.

Utterly oblivious to her dilemma, Sherlock went for his microscope, busying himself with locating a clean slide in the disaster of the kitchen table.

“Right,” John said awkwardly. “Well, if that’s all, then I’ll just… um.”

Sherlock ignored her, and she left the room hastily.

*

She wasn’t going to, she told herself resolutely. She wasn’t going to have a wank while she thought of Sherlock.

He was her friend, her flatmate, her colleague; he was married to his work, uninterested in her, quite possibly asexual; and to think of him like that seemed wrong.

So John watched porn clips on her computer and made herself think of the people in those, think of random fantasies, think of her favourite exes, while she lay on her back and touched herself through her knickers.

However, by the time John came, on her stomach and biting the pillow, it was Sherlock’s face in her mind, his tongue peeking out of his lips as he licked her blood from his finger again and again.

*

When John went downstairs the next morning, she found Sherlock in the same position she’d left him: seated at the kitchen table, peering into the eyepiece of his microscope. The only sign he’d moved at all during the night was the empty teacup by his elbow.

“Was it the situation,” said Sherlock without raising his head, “or me?”

John wondered if he’d been talking to her when she wasn’t in the room again. “I’m sorry?”

He sat back, looking remarkably alert for having stayed up all night staring into a microscope. “After you gave me the specimen container. Something aroused you. Which was it: the idea of someone dabbling in your menstrual fluid, or that it was me doing it?”

John inhaled sharply. Of course he’d noticed. Could nothing happen to her without it being immediately obvious to Sherlock?

“Dunno,” she admitted. After all, there was no point in denying it, was there? He’d see right through it even if she tried. “Bit of both, maybe.”

Sherlock made a thoughtful sound and returned to his microscope. “Interesting,” he murmured, adjusting the focus. “The same as me, then.”

For a moment, John was certain that she had misunderstood. Not because she couldn’t believe that Sherlock was capable of spontaneous sexual arousal, but because she couldn’t believe that he would admit to it, and without even being asked.

_What the bloody hell_ , she boggled, _am I meant to do with that?_

Nothing, apparently. The silence stretched longer and longer, and Sherlock seemed not to expect a response at all.

And, well, that suited John just fine. Sexual attraction didn’t have to mean anything, did it? She was happy to ignore it.

*

“Can I have some more?”

This time, because there was a precedent, John understood immediately.

“You’ll have to wait until next month,” she said. Sherlock was standing at the window, poised almost artfully with his violin at his side. “It’s mostly just discharge now.”

He cocked his head. “Dis-charge,” he echoed, drawing the syllables out rather than just asking for clarification, as he was wont to do.

John bit back a smile. It was nice, she thought, being the one with a wealth of knowledge for a change. Shame it couldn’t have been about something more impressive, perhaps something case-related.

“Just old blood expelled from the uterus. Not terribly exciting, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock, though, looked absolutely enamoured. “Can I see?”

“Er,” John said, taken aback. “No. Just because you’ve a sudden interest in menstruation doesn’t mean my body is your new sodding playground.”

Sherlock’s answer was a long-suffering sigh, and he threw himself lengthwise across the sofa as though he’d been gravely inconvenienced. His violin made an ugly sound as it thumped the cushion.

John sighed heavily and rubbed her palm over her forehead. “What more can there be to do with my blood? You’ve spent the last four days practically glued to your microscope. I can’t imagine there’s much left to investigate.”

“Investigate, no.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by the cushion. “Experiment, yes. I want to see how menstrual fluid compares to blood. Clotting, chemical reactions, interactions with various types of venom in particular, effects of freezing and boiling…. With your permission, I expect I’ll put the results up on the website.”

“My permission?” Ah, right: because it was _her_ menstrual blood. “Huh. That’s considerate of you.”

Sherlock rolled to his side, bringing his violin to his chest, and caught John’s gaze. “I can have another sample next month, then?”

There was a good possibility that he’d lose interest by then. With few exceptions, Sherlock’s obsessions burned brightly but fleetingly.

John shrugged. “If you want.”

*

John’s next period arrived with both a bang and a whimper. She went to bed feeling off and woke up at five in agony, feeling like her insides were twisting themselves in knots and wringing blood out of her by the pint.

It was far too early in the day, she decided, to bother with her usual routine of faffing about on the sofa. She changed out her pantyliner for an overnight pad, took two ibuprofen, and hauled the heating pad straight to her bed, where she curled around it and lay perfectly still while she waited for the pills to work.

Despite the brightly lit lamp on her bedside table, she dozed on and off, the cramps slowly receding, until half six when she heard the familiar noise of Sherlock’s swift footfall on the stairs. He didn’t even hesitate outside John’s door, much less knock, before he burst in, his blue dressing gown flapping dramatically about his knees.

“You forgot the Jaffa Cakes,” he said, brandishing the package in his hand as he approached, looking pleased with himself for having remembered.

John wasn’t even on the same level of the flat as him, and he’d been able to deduce that her period had begun. Of course he had.

“Cheers,” she said, accepting the package even though she didn’t feel much like eating anything just then. She tucked it beside her pillow and rolled onto her back, while Sherlock stood just beside the bed, looking down at her like she was a code he hadn’t quite worked out if he wanted to decipher or not.

“You said I could have another sample of your menstrual fluid,” he said.

John hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but neither had it been on her mind the last few weeks, aside from the memory of Sherlock licking her blood from his finger, which popped up more often than she would have liked. “Give me a bit,” she told him. “I’m not really up to moving just yet.”

Sherlock’s lip quirked down. “You’re in pain.”

John snorted. “Well spotted.” She clutched the heating pad more firmly to her abdomen and saw Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement beneath the bedsheets.

“That reminds me,” he began, seating himself at the edge of her bed, which was… odd. John and he were close, of course, and he was probably the best friend and certainly the best colleague or flatmate she had ever had, but they didn’t hang about in each other’s rooms and sit on each other’s beds like children at a sleepover.

“Is it true,” he continued, “that orgasms can help relieve the discomfort of menstrual cramps?”

John stared. “Er.” Genuine and utterly nonsexual curiosity, or a sudden and absolutely rubbish attempt at a come-on? What she thought she knew about Sherlock was telling her one thing, and her instinct was telling her something different entirely. “Depends. They, um. They can.”

Sherlock nodded once, curtly, and pressed his lips in a thin, tense line. “Do you— If you require any… assistance in that endeavour—”

John could feel herself gaping like an idiot as the truth of the situation dawned. “You can’t be serious.”

Sherlock winced, actually physically _winced_ , and was off the bed and striding towards the door by the time John realised she’d just accidentally been a bit of a tit.

“Right,” Sherlock said. “Yes. You’re precisely right.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sherlock.” She sat up. “Get back here. That came out wrong.”

Sherlock spun around. His face was flushed a pale pink, and he scowled at a spot just above her head. “Of course it didn’t,” he said icily. “It came out exactly as you meant it: utter incredulity at the possibility of engaging in sexual activity with me.”

“You realise that the day after I met you, you told me outright that that ‘wasn’t your area,’” John snapped back. “And that not a week goes by when I don’t get to hear the next verse in your ode to the uselessness of sentiment and the inanity of human relationships.”

Sherlock made a face as though he had swallowed something particularly foul. “I have spent the last fifty-seven days ensuring that my… _regard_ for youis obvious.”

“Obvious? Sherlock, a microscopic spatter of mud on the bottom of someone’s shoe is obvious to you. The rest of us need something a bit more than that.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, stomping his foot like a child throwing a tantrum, “now you have it. So?”

“So.” John took a deep breath, thinking quickly. “Come here.”

Sherlock did, slinking across the room with his shoulders tight and his expression sullen. He stopped just beside John’s bed and perched gingerly on the edge when she motioned him to.

“Right,” she said, taking another deep breath. “So, I’m on my period.”

She could see how much effort it took for Sherlock to say nothing about her stating the obvious. “Yes.”

“Which is some sort of thing for you, I think, yeah?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Apparently.”

“And it’s… some sort of thing for me too, apparently.” Sherlock dipping his finger into her menstrual blood, then licking it clean. Yes. Yes, it really was. “But I’m knackered at the moment, and feel a bit shit besides, so I’m going to stay here with my heating pad and have a nap. And when I get up… well, we can see.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, the sullen expression finally fading, replaced by a pleased little quirk of his lip. He stared at her for several seconds, until she half wanted to cringe away from the weight of his attention.

“Acceptable,” he declared suddenly, and left without another word.

*

John woke again just past nine, feeling much better. She unplugged the heating pad, which had long since turned itself off as a safety measure, then got out of bed and shuffled downstairs.

The flat was silent. She found Sherlock in his bedroom, lying supine atop the duvet in the centre of his bed. He’d changed out of his dressing gown and pyjamas, and into a pair of black trousers and a white dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he had his hands clasped on his chest. He didn’t so much as twitch when John approached the open doorway.

Asleep, she assumed, and turned away.

“Feeling better?” said Sherlock.

John turned back. “Loads.”

He shifted his shoulders on the bed as though getting comfortable, although his eyes remained closed. “Mm. Would you like to know what has occupied my mind for the past several weeks?”

“Um. Sure.”

“You, in the midst of menstruation, sitting in my armchair while I’m out.” Sherlock’s voice was low, practically a purr; John fancied she could almost feel the vibrations in the floorboards. When his eyes finally opened, his gaze found hers unerringly. “No trousers, no knickers, leaking menstrual fluid all over the seat of my chair while you touch yourself. Then when I return, I can deduce from the stains in the fabric, and the mess on your skin, everything that you’ve done—how long you teased yourself, how you squirmed when your hands found just the right spot, how many times you brought yourself to orgasm until you were satisfied.”

Well, John thought, he certainly wasn’t wasting any time, was he? And that was… well, all right with her actually.

Still, she felt compelled to ask, “And you don’t think we should, I dunno, talk about this before we go jumping headfirst into it?”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Why? To discuss possible repercussions? We both know them already. To give yourself an opportunity to rethink the situation? You prefer to act, not to think. You trust your instinct above all else. And your instinct brought you here, to my bedroom.”

Yes. Yes, it did. “Do you have condoms?” John asked.

Sherlock’s response was an exaggerated grimace. “Intercourse? No. Dull. Will that be a problem?”

John savoured the first shiver of arousal between her thighs. No, certainly no problem at all.

“Gloves? Dental dams?” she suggested instead, although even as she did, she was dismissing the idea. Off the top of her head, she could name four separate instances she and Sherlock had bled on each other, open wounds touching and blood mingling, which was arguably more dangerous than unprotected oral or manual sex. Plus, she trusted Sherlock. And John Watson didn’t trust lightly.

“Cling film in the kitchen,” Sherlock said. “A box of disposable latex gloves—”

“Never mind,” said John. “It’s fine.”

She moved farther into the room, and Sherlock promptly surged to a seated position and lunged for her, grabbing her round the waist and hauling her closer. Her knees knocked the edge of the mattress, and then he was kissing her. Open-mouthed, wet, and utterly sloppy—John couldn’t remember a time she’d been kissed with less finesse, but it was strangely endearing. He clung to her, rose to his knees and pawed greedily at her arms, shoulders, throat.

When she broke away, he tried to follow, snarling when John’s hand on his chest prevented him.

“We’re going to need a towel,” John said.

“Of course we won’t. Why would we?”

“Blood. Rather a lot of it. And trust me, Sherlock, if any of it gets on your bed, the stain will never come out.”

“Mm.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, and the tip of his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. “Not a problem.”

He might change his mind when he saw the mess she would doubtlessly make of his impeccably white sheets, John thought wryly. But then Sherlock swept his hands down her sides, trailing almost reverently along the widest part of her hips, and John pushed everything from her mind besides how strong his grip was, how long his fingers, and how bloody wonderful this would feel.

“Take these off,” said Sherlock, plucking at her pyjama bottoms.

Without hesitation, John shoved them down and stepped out of them, then decided to go ahead and take off her shirt while she was at it, so that she stood in front of Sherlock in nothing but her knickers.

His gaze lingered on her shoulder, where the infected bullet wound had left a gnarled scar, and then on her breasts, which were _fantastic_ , if she did say so herself, easily her favourite feature, and finally rested on her knickers. Sherlock brought his hands to the very top of her thighs and, when John widened her stance in plain invitation, slipped between them to rub her through her knickers.

—no, she realised after a moment. He was feeling her pad through the fabric, running his fingers quite deliberately along the edges of it, getting a sense for the shape of it and how she wore it. And that was… strange. Not unexpected, she supposed—this was Sherlock, after all, who for all his genius rarely seemed to have space in his brain for more than one thing at a time and became infuriatingly single-minded as a result—but very, very strange all the same.

It should have put her off the idea of sex, probably.

It didn’t.

“Here,” she said, and began to ease her knickers off her hips and down her legs. She bent to retrieve them from around her feet and offered them to Sherlock.

But he barely paid them a glance, accepting them with an impatient huff before tossing them to the side in favour of reaching between her thighs again. His first two fingers lightly traced the length of her labia. The touch tickled vaguely, made her want to squirm, which was difficult when she was standing. Then he stroked more firmly, more slowly, and that felt much better indeed.

“Oh,” John sighed, swaying towards him. Her knees felt weak, and her cunt began to throb, to get wet. She raised one knee to the bed beside Sherlock, opening herself even more, and with a wide-eyed, rapt expression, Sherlock obliged and dipped the very, very tip of his forefinger inside her.

She didn’t immediately sink down and impale herself all the way to his second knuckle, but it was a near thing. She’d never liked being teased, when one of her partners put themselves just shy of where she wanted them and made her beg for it, but she had a feeling that wasn’t what Sherlock was doing now. So she held back, toes curling in the carpet, and let him explore.

For several, torturous seconds, however, he did nothing. Just stayed with one fingertip barely stretching her cunt around it, his mouth falling open in something like awe.

“You have…,” John began, but wasn’t sure how to finish. She’d never asked anyone in the middle of sex if they had done this sort of thing before. It seemed a bit of a rude question, now she thought about it. “Er.”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly. “I haven’t. Problem?”

_Jesus._ John swayed again, and had to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder to keep herself aright. A virgin. _Christ._

“Your muscles just tightened,” said Sherlock, now peering curiously into her face. “You like that I’m… inexperienced.”

Bloody right she did. A thirty-four-year-old virgin. If Sherlock put his cock in her, he’d probably last a minute before he lost himself, clinging to her, overwhelmed and moaning helplessly. John could ruin him, utterly spoil him, and more than that, he _wanted_ her to. He’d come to her. Fucking hell, of course she liked it.

“Just a bit,” she admitted, wanting to kiss him again—was she the first to do that as well?—but he was staring down, saying “Oh” with surprise thick in his voice, and John realised almost immediately what had distracted him. She felt the awkward surge of blood from her cunt and glanced down to see a drop of dark red sinking into the carpet, followed by another. Several more began to trickle down Sherlock’s hand to his wrist.

“Shit,” said John. “Mrs Hudson won’t be pleased about that.”

Sherlock didn’t even seem to hear her. He rubbed his fingertip in little circles around John’s entrance, looking positively enraptured at the sight of the mess he was making, and the puzzle pieces suddenly slotted together in John’s mind.

Of course. The mess. Perhaps she was as dim as Sherlock liked to think she was, if it took her this long to see what she realised now had been right in front of her.

John budged Sherlock gently back, until he fell backwards on the bed, then propped himself up on one elbow. His blood-smeared hand hung awkwardly in the air, as though he weren’t sure quite what to do with it. She climbed on top of him, one knee on either side as she hovered over his lap, untucking the shirt from his waistband and smoothing it down over his trousers. He was hard, his erection tenting both shirt and trousers rather conspicuously.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock moaned softly, as John lowered herself into his lap. His cock nestled nicely against her bum, and she didn’t have to look to know that blood was blooming on Sherlock’s stark white shirt where she was seated and leaking on it. Pink rose to his cheeks, and his eyes went half-lidded and dazed as he thrust weakly against her. “Oh,” he said again. “Oh, please.”

Sherlock Holmes reduced to a blushing, pleading, gorgeous thing beneath her. John felt invincible. “Shh,” she said. She wrapped her fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and brought his bloody hand to his mouth. He sucked his first two and messiest fingers obediently between his lips.

“Good boy,” John told him, rocking back against his cock to reward him. He whimpered around his mouthful, and her clit ached at the needy little sound. “Do you know, I learned to masturbate by squeezing a pillow between my legs. Haven’t done it in years now, but… imagine the mess I could make of one of yours if I did that right now.”

Sherlock gasped and arched, rubbing his prick whorishly against her bottom.

“Would you like that?” John asked. He nodded, looking lost and desperate. “Course you would. Then you could lay your head on the stain every night, or every night you slept anyway, and smell me, think about me. Maybe you could suck at the pillowcase to get a taste—”

Sherlock’s head fell back, and he groaned low and long around his fingers while he grasped uselessly at the duvet with his clean hand, thrusting frantically and helplessly as he came. John’s stomach swooped as she watched him make a mess of his posh, expensive pants. The things she wanted to do to Sherlock, she realised, were numerous and _filthy_.

“All right?” she said, stroking his heaving chest. He nodded, swallowing thickly, still suckling his fingers. She could still feel his cock twitching faintly against her arse, and abruptly she wanted to reach behind and stroke his softening prick in his trousers until he squirmed and cried from overstimulation. But torturing someone who hadn’t asked to be tortured really wasn’t on, so she refrained, waiting patiently for him to come down.

Finally, Sherlock slid his fingers from his mouth, looking as embarrassed as John had ever seen him, and laid one hand on either of her thighs, grasping them firmly. “I can,” he said, “if you like… that is, if you’re amenable, I would enjoy the opportunity to….”

John had never seen him so inarticulate, which was more than a little flattering. It was only through the way he was tugging at her legs, trying to haul her towards his chest, that she managed to glean what he was proposing.

“You want me to sit on your face,” she said, unable to hold back a small smirk at how Sherlock flushed, lips pursing, and looked away.

“If you want to be blunt about it, I suppose,” he answered, sounding almost sulky.

It made for an appealing image: Sherlock’s mouth and chin stained with her blood and wetness, so wholly saturated in her that hours later he’d still be able to taste her. He needn’t even know what to do, really; as long as he could hold his tongue still and firm, she could rub herself to orgasm against it.

“Another time,” John decided. She covered Sherlock’s hands with her own, stroking the lengths of his fingers. “Right now, I’m more interested in these, to be honest.”

She climbed off and set about turning down the duvet, exposing the clean white sheets beneath. If Sherlock fancied a mess, after all, then John was determined to give him a proper one. When the duvet had been shoved out of the way, she lay on her back in the centre of the bed and didn’t even have to reach for Sherlock before he was joining her, inserting himself between her spread thighs and bringing his hand between them to toy with her vulva.

“Mm,” he said, watching his own fingers pet along her outer labia before he dipped past them, stroking just below her clit. “You’re wet.”

John grinned. “Yeah, that happens. Here.” She brought his fingers to her cunt and gently coaxed two of them inside where she was aching for it. Sherlock gasped like he’d been hurt, and seemed mesmerised by the sight of his fingers thrusting in and then out of her.

“Circular motions,” she told him, and demonstrated the action against his wrist, which he mimicked perfectly, sweeping his fingertips along her walls. “Just a little deeper, and angle up. No, not quite that—oh. Oh, that’s it, just there.”

_Perfect. God._ John allowed herself a moment to savour it, to let her eyelids droop and to rock against his fingers, before she continued. “That’s my G-spot.” She sounded more breathless than she was, and Sherlock glanced up at her, his eyebrows knit. “That’s, um, the Gräfenberg sp—”

“I know what a G-spot is.” He arced his fingers wider as though to prove it. The pressure was heavenly, and she dropped her head with a moan.

“Right,” she said breathily, raising her head to find a self-satisfied little smirk curving his lips. “Well, if you keep that up, I’ll get wetter, and you’ll have a nice-sized puddle on your bed that I’m sure will leave a decent stain.”

“Good.” His voice was low, and she parted her thighs even wider as he prodded more firmly at her G-spot. She could _hear_ herself get wetter, Sherlock’s fingers making lovely slick noises as they fucked her. “Give me that. I want to be able to picture this any time I want. I want evidence of how—ah, you’re leaking.”

John was. She felt another surge of blood, or wetness, or both, drip from her cunt down her arse to the bed. She lifted her head again, suddenly keen to see Sherlock’s reaction.

She was somewhat taken aback by the amount of blood. It almost looked as though Sherlock had been stabbed, the patch of red on his white shirt was so large and so dark, and John’s own thighs were smeared all the way to her knees. While she watched, Sherlock removed his fingers from her pussy, leaving her empty and sighing, and held them up for his perusal. They were coated in blood, dribbling on the sheets.

It looked gruesome, and Sherlock seemed spellbound by the sight. He took deep, shaky breaths, his whole body seeming to swell and shrink with each one, and if he hadn’t already had come drying in his pants, which was surely uncomfortable by now, John might have suspected he was about to shove his hand in his trousers and wank himself raw right then.

“How do I make you come?” he asked. He looked at John through his fringe, eyes wide and lips red and shining, like he’d been biting at them. “I want you to come. Please.”

_‘Please_ , _’_ John thought, her cunt clenching as a thrill ran through her. _Fuck_.

“On my stomach,” she said, and Sherlock nearly fell backwards in his haste to be out of her way so she could change positions. She rolled over, then glanced over her shoulder as she tipped her bottom up and spread herself as much as she could, giving Sherlock a perfect view of her wet, messy cunt.

He stared like she was a good locked-room murder or an unexpected reaction on his microscope stage, like he wanted to take every bit of her in so he could analyse it later at length. His cock wasn’t yet hard again, as far as she could tell—not even a hint of a tent in his trousers—but he was gagging for it all the same.

“Three fingers this time,” she told him. “But just like before, right against my G-spot.”

Sherlock wasted no time complying, crawling forward and easing three fingers into her—his clean hand, this time, while his bloody one came to rest on the bed beside her shoulders. He found the angle on the first try, the sodding genius, and John dropped her cheek to the pillow with a long, soft moan as her pussy stretched around him, a pleasant sort of ache. She reached beneath herself, pressing the heel of her hand against her pubic bone, and rubbed. Her clit throbbed sweetly at the friction.

“Is this all right?” Sherlock asked. His fingers returned to those lovely circling motions, driving into her G-spot again and again. “Tell me. What does it feel like?”

“Good,” John said with a gasp. “Full, oh. Less circling, more fucking, please.” Too rough, the first thrust, and too shallow the next few. But _then_. Dragging against her sweet spot, then sinking deeper, opening her even more. Her cry was long and loud, and she curled her own fingers, budging past her labia to flick directly against her clit. “Oh _god._ ”

There was a touch on her lower back, a press of lips and a brush of hair, as Sherlock bent closer, panting. “I felt that. You clenched around me. What do you need? Please.”

What did she need? Just this. This for just a bit longer, but if he wanted to hurry it up….

“Talk to me,” she said.

Another kiss, a few inches higher, just below her shoulder blades.

“The things I want you to do to me, John,” he said, his voice nearly a growl. “Shall I tell you what I did after you had gone to bed, the night you provided me a sample? I shut myself in my room and masturbated, right here. I even pulled at my own hair like I imagined you would do, holding me immobile while you rode my tongue—”

With a sob, John buried her face in the pillow, ground desperately against her hand, and came, throbbing around Sherlock’s fingers.

“Oh,” he said, sounding startled. “Oh, god, John.”

He froze, which was good. It was very, very good, and she gave him her prettiest, sluttiest moan to show him how good it was as she took over, rocking onto his fingers while he held himself still and let her use him.

When her cunt stopped fluttering and she’d rode out everything but the last of the aftershocks, she lay flat on her stomach, turning her head to the side as she sucked in long, deep breaths. Sherlock’s hand had left a series of bloody smears on the sheets beside her. Something about the sight made her giggle, although it changed to a groan of discomfort when Sherlock removed his fingers a tad too quickly.

“Sorry,” said Sherlock, and for once he actually sounded it.

He practically collapsed beside her, right on top of the mess of bloody handprints. His cheeks were flushed and his fringe plastered to his sweat-damp forehead, like he’d been running around London for hours. John wondered how soon he’d be ready for another round, and how best to ask him. In the meantime, though, perhaps he wouldn’t mind if John curled up right here and had a lie-down. He might even appreciate the mess she was sure to leave if she lay here without a stitch of clothing.

“I want you to spend tomorrow without knickers or trousers,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Nothing to stop you from trailing blood all over the flat as you go about your day.”

Yes, John thought, he would almost certainly appreciate it. Then she wondered if her orgasm had made her a bit stupid, because the idea of bleeding all over Sherlock’s bed sounded much more pleasant than it probably should have.

“Not a chance,” she said. “You can have your sample and your experiments, but I am not making a mess of this flat—and giving Mrs Hudson quite a shock, mind—just to satisfy your kink. Also, _blood_? What happened to _menstrual fluid_?”

Although Sherlock responded with a huff, he didn’t seem terribly put out. He rolled onto his back and lifted his hands, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger and admiring the tiny bits of dried menstrual blood that flaked off.

“I’ll put another specimen container in the toilet, then?” he said.

John shrugged. “Yeah.” She reached for the duvet near her feet and dragged it lazily towards her. “Sure.”


End file.
